Tightrope

by Teri White

  Despite the sign, when Lars turned the knob, the door swung open. A tinny bell sounded a warning as he stepped inside. He closed the door again, reaching back with one hand to slide the lock into place. The small click it made gave him a feeling of security. This deal was getting to the point where he needed somebody around to cover his ass. Soon.

  The powerful smells inside hit him like a physical blow. The aromas seemed at once familiar and exotic and the sensation made him a little dizzy.

  “You’re late.” A short, wiry man just past middle age and wrapped in a big white apron appeared in the room.

  Lars moved toward the small bar, automatically reaching for another cigarette. “Tough shit,” he muttered. “What difference does it make? You got something more important to do with your time?”

  “I have got a business to run.” Hua’s English was still heavily accented.

  Lars glanced around the grimy café. “And the place seems to be flourishing,” he said.

  Hua either did not catch the sarcasm or simply chose to ignore it. “I get along. Now I belong to the Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Glad to hear it. Things like that sort of prove that this is still the land of golden fucking opportunity.” Lars slid onto a stool. “Gimme a beer.”

  “On the house or will you pay?”

  “I’ll pay, damnit.” People never changed; Hua was still the same bastard he’d been as a government lackey in Saigon.

  Hua reached into a large stainless steel cooler, then slid a bottle of beer down the bar toward him. The brand was one Lars had never heard of. “This thing is making me nervous,” Hua said.

  “You were always nervous.” Lars took a long gulp of the beer, letting the overchilled liquid soothe his dry smoker’s throat. It had a terrible taste. “You were always a chickenshit coward, in fact.”

  Hua did not seem to take umbrage at the remark; he was a man who long ago lost the freedom to feel offended by anything that was said to him, at least by certain men. He just reached into the cooler again, this time pulling out a bottle of Ripple. Ignoring Lars’s snort of derision, he poured himself a glassful.

  Lars set his beer down carefully. “I believe that you have some information to give me?”

  “To sell you.”

  Lars conceded that with a one-shoulder shrug.

  Hua was staring into the wine, apparently looking for some secret he thought was contained there. He spoke without raising his eyes. “This is not a wise thing we are doing, Morgan.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There are dangerous men involved.”

  Lars raised a brow. “I’m a dangerous man, Hua. You should remember that.”

  He could not have forgotten the old days, when the two of them worked on the Interrogation Squad. There was always information that some bigshot thought was important, and Lars Morgan was the best there was at getting that information out of the prisoners. He was the best, despite the fact that the job wasn’t really to his taste. Combat suited him much more.

  Hua smiled faintly. “I have not forgotten. You were tough and efficient. But, Lieutenant Morgan, you are a soldier. That is all you have ever been, whether you wear the famous beret and represent the American government, or whether you simply offer yourself to the highest bidder. You have the heart and soul of a soldier.”

  Lars was bored. “So fucking what?”

  “The rules are different here, old friend. The men who you would challenge now are not soldiers. They are thugs and gangsters.”

  “Is that supposed to scare me off?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, it doesn’t.”

  “Then you are more of a fool than I thought.”

  He felt a rush of heat to his face. To hell with this. The little bastard had no right to be calling him names.

  But Lars fought down the surge of anger. He never allowed himself the luxury of that emotion. It had no place on the chessboard, because it could lead to mistakes. He couldn’t afford any blunders at this point. He swallowed once, then smiled. “What do you have for me, Hua?”

  After a moment, the other man shrugged, as if to wash his hands of any further responsibility for what might happen. He reached into the cooler one more time and pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside the bag, Lars could see a key. Without speaking, Hua walked out from behind the bar and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Lars drank the rest of the beer, making a face at the horse-piss taste. He took out his cotton handkerchief and wiped all sides of the bottle, then the edge of the bar where his fingers might accidentally have rested. He worked carefully, methodically, and when he was done, he refolded the now damp square of cloth and put it into his pocket again. He could get the door on the way out.

  He slid one hand inside his denim jacket to unsnap the top of his shoulder holster quietly. His fingers touched the familiar cold steel reassuringly.

  So Hua thought he was stupid? Well, that little prick would find out soon enough who was the fool. Lars smiled at his reflection in the dusty mirror behind the bar. He straightened his collar. Things were going much more smoothly than he had expected. And tomorrow it would get better, when he made contact with his friends.

  The kitchen door swung open and Hua came back, carrying a manila envelope. Lars shifted his shoulders slightly inside the jacket and swiveled on the stool to face Hua. He was still smiling.

  Hua saw the smile. He stopped suddenly and stared at Lars. Oh yes, the little creep remembered the old days.

  3

  Spaceman Kowalski reached for a cigarette.

  Then he saw the sign. Its message was firm, verging on outright hostility, and the point was made effectively. With a sigh, he pulled his hand back. The world could be a very unfriendly place these days, especially for a nicotine junkie.

  Across the rather dismal dayroom, two boys were playing a game of Ping-Pong. The match was so spiritless that it seemed to be happening in slow motion. Spaceman wondered if they were doped up or just too damned lazy to move any faster.

  In the corner, a group was gathered around a flickering television screen watching “Sesame Street.” Oscar the Grouch was explaining all about the letter W. Although the boys in front of the set were in their teens, they seemed to be listening with interest.

  Spaceman wished that good old Oscar could explain why he was here. Why his son, his son for Chrissake, was being kept in this place.

  Tell me, Oscar old buddy, just how the devil can life get so totally screwed up?

  He played absently with his red Bic lighter and after a moment, a faint smile appeared on his face. Not, after all, totally screwed up. There was Lainie. She was the best part of his life right now. Otherwise, there wasn’t much beyond trouble with this kid, hassles with his ex-wife, and the job, always the job. He liked being a cop, loved his work in fact, but at the same time he knew that the job was wearing him down, eroding him. But having Lainie as a part of his life made up for a lot.

  The door finally opened and Robbie came into the room. He was institutional pale, like a con in the joint, and painfully thin. The blue jeans and white teeshirt he wore hung on his body as if they belonged to someone else. In one hand he carried a red nylon duffel bag and in the other, a windbreaker.

  Robbie walked to the center of the room and stopped, just standing there.

  “Hi, there, Son,” Spaceman said.

  “Hi.”

  “All set?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He glanced around the room vaguely, as if there might be something he’d forgotten. Then he shrugged. “I’m ready.”

  “Let’s hit the road, then.” His cheeriness sounded phony even to him.

  But they couldn’t go quite yet. There were some formalities to be taken care of before they could escape the dreary surroundings of the hospital. They stopped at the front desk, where Spaceman signed a sheaf of official and officious-looking papers. He promised, among other things, to return Robert Allan Kowalski to the custody of the youth authority not lat
er than noon on the second of January. He also guaranteed that the aforementioned minor would be under properly constituted parental authority throughout the holiday leave.

  Robbie stood to one side, apparently more interested in memorizing the fading checkerboard pattern on the linoleum floor than in the administrative details of his temporary release. He stayed quiet even as they were finally able to leave the old brick building and head for the car.

  Once behind the wheel, Spaceman reached immediately for the cigarette he’d been craving and lit it. After a brief hesitation, he offered the pack to Robbie. The boy took one, nodding his thanks. They both inhaled gratefully.

  Spaceman started the car, listening to the engine grind, hoping they would make it back to the city. “Bet you’re glad to be going home for a while, huh?”

  Robbie was quiet for such a long time that Spaceman almost repeated the question. Finally Robbie spoke. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

  As he drove from the hospital grounds and turned south on 101, Spaceman tried to think of something else to say. But as usual when he was with his son, nothing came to mind.

  It was Robbie who finally broke the silence. “Can I turn the radio on?”

  “I guess so.”

  He played with the dial for several static-cluttered minutes, finally settling on a station that played only the golden oldies of rock and roll. The sound of “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” blasted into the car.

  Spaceman wondered bleakly when the devil his own life had become just a subject for nostalgia. It made him feel old. He also felt guilty about having the radio on when he knew that they should be talking—although he sure as hell didn’t know what they should be talking about—but it was easier just to let the music take over.

  And besides, it was no big deal. Just the latest failure in sixteen years of haphazard fatherhood.

  Later, he promised himself, later they would talk, get through the stone wall that seemed to keep them apart.

  For now, he just settled down for the drive, taking long drags on the cigarette and wondering what his partner was up to. Maybe when they stopped for lunch, he’d call, just to check.

  4

  It was late by the time he finally got back to the motel in West Hollywood and parked the old Ford between a rusting van and the Army-green trash bin. This spot was his favorite for parking, because it was hard to see from the street. Lars liked to keep a low profile.

  The hallway was empty as he climbed the one flight of stairs to his room. More than just a room, actually, because it also had a kitchenette and a small living area separate from the bedroom. This motel had been his home for just over a week now; its chief advantage was the low rates. He was getting tired of the air of grim depression in the place, however. The peeling paint and subtle stink of greasy food and human debris that clung tenaciously to the very walls seemed drearily like so many of the dumps he’d lived in over the years.

  But soon he’d be able to kiss off this kind of life for good. Before much longer, he’d be living like a fucking Arab sheik.

  Lars thought with mild regret about the money he no doubt could have taken from Hua. But the idea repelled him somehow, in the same way he had always viewed with distaste the looting and sacking of enemy villages during any of the wars he’d been in. Kill the bastards, burn the huts, whatever duty required, but for Chrissake, a soldier didn’t pick the bones of his victims. Not a warrior. And to steal the money from Hua would have been no different. Lars Morgan wasn’t a thief. He just wanted what was rightfully his.

  Still, he sighed a bit regretfully.

  The broad was sitting in her usual corner of the couch, which made him sigh again. He had been harboring a small hope that maybe she’d left during the day. But no such luck. God, he was tired of her, but at the moment, he was so wrapped up in other things, important things, that it was too much trouble to bother dumping her. But soon.

  She barely glanced up from Johnny Carson as he came in. “About time,” she said.

  Ignoring the comment, he stood behind the closet door to take off his jacket and holster. Wouldn’t you think she’d get the message? Hell, he hadn’t even touched her in days. He looped the holster over a coat hook and draped the denim jacket over it.

  “You want supper?”

  “I ate already.”

  She looked indignant. “Well, hell, you might have let me know before I went to all that trouble.”

  He sat in the tattered recliner, leaning forward briefly to unlace his boots. “All what trouble?” Usually her idea of making an effort was running down to the chink’s on the corner for some lukewarm chow mein.

  “I made a meat loaf. It’s keeping warm in the oven, but it’s probably all dried out by now. Thanks to you.”

  “Fuck your meat loaf.”

  “Well, fuck you, too.” She picked up a bottle of beer and took a gulp.

  They both seemed to get bored with the conversation at the same time. Lars leaned back and closed his eyes. The day had been long and not very productive. Hua’s information, while moderately interesting, had proved much less helpful than anticipated. Sometimes it seemed like he took two steps back for every one ahead.

  He stretched. God, he was looking forward to seeing the guys again. This Lone Ranger routine was wearing on the nerves.

  “Wolf, let’s go dancing, huh? It’s early yet.” She inhaled noisily on one of the low quality joints she always had.

  Lars wished that she would just shut the hell up. Women. More trouble than they were worth. He liked it when a broad knew enough to show up just when he wanted to screw and then disappear again.

  He willed Wexler to vanish.

  But she didn’t. Her voice just went on and on.

  Suddenly something she said registered. Slowly he lowered the recliner until his feet were flat on the floor again. He opened his eyes and stared at her.

  She seemed to realize her mistake; he noticed for the first time how stoned she really was, which explained the stupid thing she’d just said.

  Lars didn’t speak for a long time, and when he did, the words came out almost in a whisper. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Wolf, I didn’t say nothing important.” She wriggled, as if trying to squeeze herself right into the worn nubby surface of the couch.

  “Damnit, don’t lie to me, you bitch. You said something about the cops.”

  She just shook her head.

  Lars didn’t let himself explode. Instead, he just leaned back in the chair again and closed his eyes. It was easier to think that way.

  Wexler, the stupid whore, must have decided that everything was okay again. She stayed quiet, apparently engrossed once more in the television. Once she giggled softly at something Ed McMahon said.

  Lars knew that it was time, past time, for Marybeth Wexler to disappear from his life. Permanently.

  The decision made, he relaxed.

  5

  Blue was so tired that the green, perfectly balanced Porsche traveled the winding road home more through pure mechanical instinct than anything he did. When he finally had the car parked safely in the driveway, he let out a sigh and sat still for a moment before summoning up the energy to get out.

  He called softly for Merlin, but the cat seemed to be nowhere around. Probably out getting a little from one of the female felines in the neighborhood. It was a sad state of affairs when a man’s cat had a better sex life than he did.

  The mailbox was jammed full of envelopes. Blue took all of them inside and dropped the bundle on the couch, forgetting it while he kicked off his shoes, removed tie and gun, and then poured himself a glass of Glen Livet over a couple of ice cubes. Automatically, he switched on his Bearcat scanner, more for the noise it provided than out of any burning need to know what was happening in the city on this particular night. Just before sitting down on the sofa with the mail, he pulled open the drapes that covered the vast picture window.

  Below was the city. From up here, where the monied and lucky lived, Los A
ngeles at night was a blanket of glittering lights and promised wonders. Blue was not so tired that he didn’t feel the usual sense of gratitude for the fact of his rich father. The old man had been a genuine bastard while alive, but his death made up for all of that by making his only son and heir a millionaire several times over.

  Of all the good things his money allowed him to have, Blue thought that this view was the most precious. Even though he knew full well that the glitter was mostly fool’s gold and the promises were mostly lies, he could still get a good feeling looking down at his city.

  Blue took a long drink of the Scotch, letting its warmth and smoothness soothe him, loosen the tight muscles. Only then did he reach for the first envelope. It was a Christmas card, but the names embossed inside in gold meant nothing to him at all. He dropped both the card and the envelope into the wastebasket. Several more cards received the same fate in rapid succession.

  He knew that all these people who sent the expensive, impersonal cards were former friends and business associates of the old man’s. What he couldn’t understand was why the hell, all these years later, they were still sending him season’s greetings. Probably they all figured that sooner or later he’d get tired of playing cops and robbers and take direct control over the vast computer empire founded by Hank Maguire. When that happened, nobody wanted to be on junior’s shitlist. So they sent him Christmas cards and frequent invitations to fancy parties.

  The attitude annoyed him and even seemed to diminish him in some way. He was a cop, damnit, and that was what he wanted to be, all he wanted to be. More than just a public relations hack, too, now that he was in homicide. That meant he was good.

  He poured another drink.

  One of the cards was from Lieutenant McGannon and his ever-increasing brood. That one, instead of being pitched, was carefully propped on the table, where a few others, also mostly from fellow cops, already stood.